Fallen With Grace
by rivalshipping
Summary: When he Fell, not much changed. He was still Sherlock, the Proud, the Arrogant, the Insufferable, but now he was given free reign over his own life. Now he had the ability to enjoy rather than simply accomplish. Now he could make his own list of goals to tick off and be satisfied, whatever their results. The first goal was to get laid... alright, most of the goals were to get laid.
1. The First List

**aka "Sherlock Holmes: Porn Angel Extraordinaire"**

**I will be cutting out the more raunchy sections as they come, as per FFN's shitty standards, but rest assured that the full version can be found from the AO3 link on my profile : ))  
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Sherlock Holmes' first Earthly thought was, 'Shit.' His second Earthly thought was that it was very cold, which led immediately to his third Earthly thought: 'Fuck.'

He had landed in the middle of an asphalt street, the rocks and sticks on the ground poking painfully into his arse as he sat and thought; he couldn't even revel in feeling anything right now for his preoccupied mind. It was dark, but there were streetlamps. So it was a well-populated area. Then why was he alone?

He needed to get out of the populated areas, and fast. On instinct, he stretched his wings, gasping in pain when the right one twinged in aggravation. "Don't be broken," he pleaded to no one in particular, touching the twisted feathers and noting their off-white tinge. Well, he didn't have all the time in the world to fix it, but he had even less time to stay where he was. _Wherever_ that was. Deductions should (and would) take precedence.

There was snow on the ground. A lot of snow. So, Northern Hemisphere. The street signs were in English… he looked around for a more obvious sign. Ah, there: _Good Favour Lane_. Britain, one of his favourite places on this Godforsaken planet.

Sherlock pushed himself up with quickly numbing hands, a little wobbly on his new feet, but determined to move. Naked, wet, cold, frail and alone, he wasn't eager to be found by anyone with more lecherous intentions, even if he did want—

He snapped his fingers, delightfully surprised when the action conjured the parchment it was supposed to. His Fall hadn't stripped him of any powers, he still had his wings, and his heart didn't have that sinking, aching feeling that preceded a one-way trip to Purgatory. All in all, a great deal.

He scanned his list with a thoughtful expression, his otherworldly bright blue-green eyes narrowing at the line at the bottom in a much neater handwriting than his scrawl:

_Do try to take care of yourself. M_

Mycroft was still meddling, even after Sherlock had been banished. Would he ever stop? A dark chuckle rose from his throat, accompanied by a wicked twist to his lips. Mycroft could meddle all he wanted, but Sherlock was free.

He jumped up, whooping loudly as he hadn't since he was young, stopping abruptly when it jarred his injured wing. "Fuck," he said aloud, staggering into a pitch alleyway. "Damn."

Right above him, there was a window open. The lights were off and Sherlock could smell someone inside; from the deep, even sound of their breathing, they were asleep. All else was quiet. Steeling himself, Sherlock took a few steps back to have a running start at the third-floor window, beating his wings until he was through the window and then crumpling to the cold wooden floor in agony. He bit his lip to reign in his screams, a flicker of regret passing through him. He came to the land of the living to feel, but so far, there was only pain. Maybe the Humans _did_ have something to complain about.

The Human in the room—a man, Sherlock realized as he crawled a bit closer—was still asleep. There was a faint line between his eyebrows, hinting at distress, but when Sherlock curiously touched his forehead there was no rush of senses. That worked well enough on dead Humans. Or maybe he had lost that ability.

Sherlock wandered around the man's flat for a while, finding an aid kit but unable to work on his wing from his angle, running hot water from the tap through his dry, matted hair, staring in the mirror for an inordinate amount of time (his body was better than he could have hoped for, if a bit gaunt and pale), and finally working his way back to the man's room and into his closet.

Dr. John Watson. Sherlock flipped through his wallet, closing it with a snap and tossing it onto the dresser. Interesting. This "Dr. Watson" was shorter than Sherlock's new body by a generous amount, so he didn't have much in the way of clothes for Sherlock to choose from. The Angel made do with a pair of sweatpants and an overlarge t-shirt (his body had much narrower shoulders than most Human men he had seen), sliding on the trousers and fingering the shirt lightly. He padded back out of the Human's room in search of a knife or some scissors.

When he was near-to-comfortable, the shirt sporting a large hole in the back for his wings to rest comfortably and a pleasant-smelling afghan spread over his legs, he was struck with the agonizing realization that his halo was gone. He hadn't felt it when he washed his hair, or when he pulled the shirt over his head. He covered his mouth with his hands to prevent himself from being sick. "Fuck," he whispered again.

If that simple golden ring was gone, then Sherlock was a presence on Earth. A potentially _permanent_ presence.

The man, Dr. John Watson, came out of his room right at that moment and Sherlock froze, eyes wide. One thing after another was delaying the completion of his list. Must have been Mycroft's doing.

Dr. Watson stared at the couch, seeming to look right through him, before shaking his head and walking into the kitchen. Sherlock exhaled heavily, a satisfied smile playing on his full lips. The Human couldn't see him—Molly, one of the younger Angels made to deal with deceased Humans, would say that it was a good thing Dr. Watson didn't go through anything traumatic enough to see him. Sherlock scoffed at the thought. Trauma was all Humans had going for them.

He snapped his fingers again, snatching the parchment and pen deftly out of the air and sucking the top of the pen in thought. It had always helped him to lay out the facts, and his sudden (and painful) expulsion from Heaven needed a lot of thought.

1. Mycroft is a stupid bastard.

He stared at number one for a long moment, a pleased smile on his face, before continuing:

2. Lucifer questioned, I merely observed.

Perhaps that's why he was on Earth, instead of in Hell or Purgatory or simply Out. It was definitely why his most important appendage was missing.

3. God is angry with me.

God was always angry with Sherlock, so that didn't come as a surprise.

4. I don't know whether or not I can go home.

That one was frightening. He only intended to visit, have a bit of sex, drink a bit of coffee, and pop back. From the greyish tinge to his wings, it seemed that "popping back" was going to take manipulation, effort, and time. More time than he was willing to wait.

5. I can stay at this Human's house, because he can't see me.

All in all, good. The fewer Humans that could see him, the better (unless, of course, they were up for a shag).

6. I have been on Earth for five hours and I have not had sex **once**.

His train of thought was interrupted when Dr. Watson came back into the room, holding a steaming cup of tea and staring into the nothingness that occupied Sherlock's seat. "I suppose you'd want to know what I'm doing here," Sherlock said pleasantly.

Dr. Watson frowned and turned away, his gaze instead settling on the desk drawer opposite Sherlock. After his extensive search, Sherlock knew what that drawer contained: Sellotape, pens, pencils, a notepad, a laptop, and…

The air seemed to have been stolen from Sherlock's lungs (he never thought he would feel that, and now that he had, he never wanted to again). There was also a firearm. From the slight tremor in Dr. Watson's left hand and the way his eyes went cold, Sherlock could tell that was the only item in the drawer he was thinking about. "Killing yourself is not a good idea," Sherlock offered in an uneasy voice.

His unheard statement seemed to strike a chord somewhere within Dr. Watson. His deep blue eyes shifted to the window and Sherlock was able to take a breath again. "You wouldn't happen to have any fags, would you?" he murmured, pulling the blanket tighter around himself and ignoring the burning behind his eyes when his wing screamed at him, once again angry at being jostled. "You wouldn't be able to…" he swallowed hard, "to help me?"

Dr. Watson stood and left the room and Sherlock was left alone again.

He went back to his list.

7. I think my wing is broken.

Not good. Really not good. If it healed in the wrong way, he would be crippled forever (if he was even still immortal).

8. I'm not sure if I'm still immortal.

He certainly didn't want to die from gonorrhea or AIDS or anything terrible like that, but he wanted to have _a lot_ of sex and didn't have any money for protection. The Humans who could give him what he wanted would most likely not be the cleanest. Heavy trauma messed Humans up in a way much worse than just physically.

9. I want to know what sex is like.

This item was redundant, as he already had another list of things he wanted to do while on Earth, but he felt as if it deserved repeating.

10. I want to know why Dr. John Watson looks so sad.

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	2. Fake Smiles and Desperate Measures

**Thank you for reading : ) If you have any questions or would just like to say something nice, please review.**

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The most important thing about Dr. John Watson that Sherlock discovered in his first few days was that he never smiled. Sherlock had taken to following him around, as always keeping one eye out for anyone who could see him, and watching him work at a small surgery. He would acknowledge his coworkers, and sometimes even hold a short conversation, but there was never even a flicker of humour on his face.

It could have been his leg—psychosomatic, Sherlock figured, from his ability to stand for long periods of time as if he forgot about it. He'd been injured for less than a year and was discharged with honours from the military because of it. The Angel felt surprisingly upset that he had to leave. Dr. Watson seemed almost lost without it.

Sherlock's adventuring outside was a bad idea in the first place, even if it hadn't hit him with _feelings_ he didn't know he had. He wore the same (stolen) clothes for four days, unable to take them off when Dr. Watson was around or else they would pop back into his plane of existence. On the third and fourth days, it snowed; he was left sick and shivering in the warmest corner of Dr. Watson's sitting room, his wing quickly becoming infected.

On the fifth day, his entire right side was numb when he awoke (the need for sleep was another one of those things that frightened him) and half of his right wing's feathers had molted off. He ran a shaky hand through his dark curls and tried to sit up away from the wall, but it hurt too much to even attempt.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he was calling for Mycroft's help, because, after all, they were brothers. When he was younger, Mycroft would always comfort him whenever he needed it, and knew how to fix everything that went wrong. A larger part of him was insisting that he was a fully grown Angel and didn't need some Council sod picking him up every time he fell. "M-Mycroft!" he gasped as a last resort, drawing his left wing closer to his back.

There wasn't an answer.

Sherlock breathed the ghost of a laugh. Of course he wasn't there. Perfect.

"My mother always said she could see angels."

Sherlock's head whipped around to stare at Dr. Watson, who was standing a few yards from him. "What?" he asked softly.

The doctor didn't appear to have heard him. "She said it was because she watched her mother die when she was young. And an angel came to take her mother's soul away." He crossed his arms over his chest, staring a little to the left of where Sherlock was actually sitting. "Are you here to take me away?"

"N-No, I—"

"That's quite a lot of feathers," Dr. Watson continued. "Are you injured? Or maybe I'm finally going mad."

Sherlock took a few deep breaths before heaving himself off of the cold floor, biting his lip until it bled to hold back a scream of pain. "Fuck, fuck," he muttered as he crossed the room to Dr. Watson's nearest notebook, his right wing dragging along the floor and losing a trail of feathers as he went. He swallowed hard as he clicked the pen open and scrawled across the paper.

He fought his hardest to remain standing while Dr. Watson read his note, but after a few seconds he collapsed onto the floor and covered his face with his hands to muffle his sobs. Thousands of years without sensation made pain more than too much for him to deal with, but he could almost struggle through to watch Dr. Watson's reaction.

"_I am not here to take you anywhere. I needed a place to stay,_" he read out, a slight frown marring his features. "You are injured, aren't you? I took care of a bird who had broken his wing once, and there were feathers everywhere."

The Angel didn't answer immediately, groping for the pen and taking the notepad back out of Dr. Watson's hands. He had to drop it on the table for Dr. Watson to see it. "_My right wing is broken. I think it's infected._ I can't do anything. I can't see you."

Sherlock almost rolled his eyes in exasperation, stretching his useful wing a few times before reaching out once again to touch Dr. Watson's hand. The Human looked around at him, blinking rapidly as if he wasn't sure what he was seeing.

"If you can see the feathers, you're able to see me," Sherlock said as strongly as he could, but it sounded like he was talking underwater. He wondered what it sounded like for the doctor. "You're not trying hard enough."

Dr. Watson pulled away without an answer, leaving Sherlock to stare after him. "Ah," Sherlock huffed. "Productive."

Dr. Watson was back within a few moments, however, carrying a white box with him. "I am trying," he said slowly, setting the box down on the floor in front of the sofa and reaching forward tentatively. "But I still can't see you."

Sherlock met him half-way and grabbed his hand. "Concentrate on me," he said simply.

"Can I splint your wing?" Dr. Watson asked, narrowing his eyes in an effort to find Sherlock's. "You're a bit blurry, but I'll try my best."

"Yes," Sherlock said while wracking his brain. He remembered hearing of "splints" but had probably deleted it, deeming it insignificant.

There was a period of quiet, where Dr. Watson pulled some things out of his box with his free hand and Sherlock wiped his cheeks free of tears on the shoulders of his already damp shirt. He had the urge to laugh at the doctor for trusting him so easily; it wouldn't take much for a demon to disguise himself with some wings and a—he shuddered a bit—little golden circle above his head. The three Humans he'd witnessed in the prime of their lives had gone mad interacting with Angels. Dr. Watson looked perfectly—

"Aaaah!" Sherlock cried, jerking back when the doctor touched his sensitive wing and breaking their connection. "You vile little-!"

Dr. Watson was staring very hard in Sherlock's direction. "I'm sorry, I didn't think it would hurt that much." He held his hands open, palms up in apology. "Can I try again?"

Sherlock searched his eyes for a moment, and then reached his left hand out to grasp the doctor's fingertips. "Be more careful," he hissed, his pupils blown wide.

"What's your name?" Dr. Watson asked disarmingly. His hand came again to touch Sherlock's wing, a few more feathers coming off and floating onto the floor beside them.

"S-Sherlock Holmes," the Angel replied, resisting curling in on himself for the strain it would put on his back.

"I'm—"

"Doctor John Watson." Sherlock looked up at him from under thick, dark eyelashes. "Saw your ID."

Dr. Watson's lips twitched in what could have been the beginnings of a smile, but it was quickly aborted and he was once again concentrating on the break. "You can call me John," he mumbled. "Would you mind turning around? It's hard to work at from here."

They once again broke the connection. Sherlock's injury continued to scream at him, resisting his movement.

"I can see you a bit now. Just an outline." John reached out and placed his hand on Sherlock's good wing, reestablishing the link. "How long has it been broken? Or, I should be asking, how long have you been lurking in my flat?"

Sherlock drew his knees up to his chest and rested his forehead on them. "Five days."

John's hands fluttered gently over his back. "We're going to get this washed first, in some properly hot water." He stood up and took Sherlock by the elbow to lead him to the bathroom (Sherlock already knew where it was, of course, but he was cataloguing this feeling of comfort he got from Dr.-_John's_ warm skin). "I should probably… err, go in with you…"

Sherlock turned to look at him, raising a curious eyebrow. John was suddenly stuttering and stammering over a bit of water. "Yes, fine," he agreed, gingerly pulling the shirt up and over his head and dropping the sweatpants to the floor around his ankles.

The doctor's face turned an amusing shade of red and busied himself with the taps on the bath. "I like your wings," he said aloud. "They're a very nice colour."

Sherlock took a few painful steps over to him to touch his arm. "They were white, before. I'm not sure what's happened to them."

"Did you come from Heaven?"

"I did."

"Why are you down here with mortals then?"

"I want to know what sex is like," Sherlock replied succinctly. John began stammering again, while Sherlock looked on with an odd smile on his face.

"You couldn't, um, find out up there?"

The Angel gritted his teeth. "Apparently not. I was banished," he admitted, "for my curiosity."

John paused at his words. "Banished?"

Sherlock sighed, tilting his head back to plead with the ceiling. "No, not like Lucifer. I'm not going to… call a following and take on God or anything _idiotic_ like that."

John relaxed a bit, the almost-smile once again tugging at a corner of his mouth before giving up. "So is that it? You want to know about sex?"

"That used to be it. But now I want to know about you. I know the basics, of course, the obvious things, but you intrigue me."

"Nothing happens to me, Sherlock. You'd be better off 'intrigued' with the Prime Minister."

Sherlock shrugged, removing his hand to climb into the bath and relax into the hot water. His left wing was pulled up against his back, only the very tips of the feathers brushing the water, but his right hung limp, soaking the feathers to a darker grey.

John wiped the area around the base of his wing with a wet flannel, holding his curls close to the back of his head with a gentle hand. "What exactly do you know about me?"

"You used to be in the military. Afghanistan. You were invalidated home… about six months ago. You've been going to a therapist regularly, and she's given you a few suggestions for getting better, but you've yet to work on any of them."

"And you've been watching me for that long?"

Sherlock chuckled softly, wiping his eyes with his wrists. Some more tears had escaped without his consent. "Angels aren't allowed to watch Humans while they're on Earth. I deduced from the evidence provided."

"And what exactly do you _want_ to know about me?" John asked, stroking soothingly at the remaining feathers on his wing.

Sherlock's breath hitched at another jolt of pain. "You look very sad."

John exhaled softly, closing his eyes. "I am sad."

"And I want to know why."

"I'd rather not say."

"So here I am."

Sherlock turned slightly, watching John gather his freed feathers in his hand and set them on the lino. "Come on. I'll get you some different clothes and something warm to drink. Are you hungry?"

"No." Sherlock stood up, watching John look away again with some amusement, and took the proffered towel, wrapping it around his waist.

They stayed silent while they were separate, John going into the kitchen to put on the kettle and Sherlock cutting a large hole in the back of another of John's spare shirts. The Angel sat at the edge of John's bed, folding his hands together and resting the tips of his index fingers against his bottom lip.

This was odd. Very odd. John accepted him into his home, even willingly taking care of him, and he hadn't had the mental breakdown Sherlock expected. Maybe it was that he was so close to suicide that it leveled his head? It seemed Sherlock would have longer than he thought to figure it out. He stroked his damp wing thoughtfully, warm and almost content.

John limped back into the room, leaning his cane on the side of the bed and handing Sherlock his tea. The cup blinked out of existence as soon as John let go. "Amazing," he muttered, once again pulling items out of his white box.

Sherlock set the cup and saucer down on the night table and reached out to John, wrapping his fingers round his wrist. "Okay. I'm ready."

John nodded and sat behind him, setting a steadying hand on Sherlock's shoulder blade and feeling across the spine of his wing for the break. The Angel hissed in pain when John reached the middle of the bone. "I think that's it," John murmured, picking up the white splint. "This might hurt. Do you want a little time?"

"What would I need time for?" Sherlock said petulantly. "Just do it."

The doctor held the bone very carefully before snapping it back in place, flinching at Sherlock's howl of pain. "Sherlock," he crooned, securing the splint to the Angel's wing and settling it against the line of his vertebrae. "Shh, come here."

Sherlock turned and wrapped his arms around John's neck, trying to calm his sobs. "That fucking hurt."

"I know it did, Sherlock, but it's over now. I… I don't know how you'll react to ibuprofen or paracetamol…"

"Any pain killer, I don't care!"

John patted the back of his head and held him for a few more moments before pulling away. "I'll be right back. Finish your tea."

Sherlock reached for the tea, but then left it where it was, the stressed muscles of his back twinging with every movement, and leaned forward against his knees, cradling his head in his hands. He was really hopeless, for an Angel. It was one thing for those benevolent Angels who loved every Human to go and… spread joy and love or whatever it was they did. Sherlock _had_ to be the inquisitive one who always wanted to know Why, and What, and How.

And now he was attached to _one_ Human, as opposed to the billions, and thrown out of his own home. He was cut off from everyone he even had the slightest association with, and while he wasn't exactly alone, he was feeling a bit more than lost.

"Here, take these," John murmured, leaning forward and touching Sherlock's arm. "And drink the whole glass. I don't want you to be hurt by the medication."

Sherlock blinked sleepily at him and did as he asked. "Do you mind if I sleep on your sofa?"

John frowned, shaking his head a little. "You'll sleep here, Sherlock. You're injured, and you might still get sick."

"Fine." He wasn't going to pass up an offer like a bed when he'd been sleeping on the floor for days. "Where are you going to stay?"

The doctor stood up and ruffled Sherlock's hair, ignoring his childish flinch away. "The sitting room." He paused, looking into Sherlock's ethereal blue-green eyes, then asked, "How old are you anyway?"

Sherlock chuckled at him, continuing to wipe at his teary eyes. "Millions of years. Billions even. I never kept count."

"And you'd never had to deal with a broken wing before?"

"Nope. And to think, me, relying on a _Human_ for treatment."

John's lips turned up in a genuine smile. "Desperate times call for desperate measures."


	3. Revelations or The Second List part I

**Thank you for reading : )  
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"Are you sure you aren't hungry? You haven't eaten in a week."

Sherlock and John were sitting next to each other on the sofa, their hands clasped in the seat between them. John had temporarily looked up from his novel and Sherlock was studying the telly and whatever drivel it was spouting intently. "I'm not," Sherlock replied absently, but gave John's hand a gentle squeeze of reassurance. Despite Sherlock's lustful goals, he was even more unfamiliar with the romantic conventions of a relationship, so to him, he was merely maintaining his and John's connection in hopes of strengthening it to the point that they didn't need to touch.

He was unfamiliar with the feeling of loneliness, but that didn't mean he didn't recognise it. Having one Human to talk to was more than enough (when the alternative was wandering alone).

"I'm going to check your wing and wash your hair, then," John said with a sigh. He pushed himself up off the sofa and helped Sherlock onto his feet (he was still feeling a bit of pain, even after his regular dosage of medication). "I might just make you eat."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, allowing himself to be dragged into the bathroom. "Does your 'Doctor Mode' ever turn off?"

"Not when there's an injured… well, not while you're injured."

He pulled the showerhead from the blue tiled wall and knelt next to Sherlock, who sat on the lino against the side of the bath and leaned his head back. Sherlock closed his eyes as John pushed his unruly curls away from his forehead.

His mouth opened slightly when warm water and John's gentle fingers ran through his hair, a deep groan of pleasure escaping him. "You're enjoying yourself?" John asked so softly his voice was almost lost to the pattering of water in the bath, his eyes roaming over the long pale line of Sherlock's neck. He caught himself after a minute and turned off the shower head to scrub a palm-full of shampoo into the Angel's dark curls.

"Very much," Sherlock purred. There was something even more _satisfying_ than simple satisfaction thrumming through him, and while it was mildly uncomfortable, it was also exciting. "Ah, what does it mean… that I don't want you to stop?"

"It means you're enjoying it," John answered simply, working a lather from Sherlock's hairline to the nape of his neck. "Most people like to be cared for by others."

"I'm not a person, John."

The doctor pressed his fingertips a little more firmly into Sherlock's scalp, coaxing out another moan. "You are a person. Not a human, but a person."

"I'm touched," Sherlock drawled (_boring Humans and their boring emotions_ was left unsaid). He stayed silent for the rest of the washing, letting John tilt and turn his head to scrub every bit of dirt out, and then rinse out the foam. John shifted closer to him when he was done, wrapping a towel around his head and scrubbing his hair dry. He laughed at the utter disarray of Sherlock's curls when he was done and attempted to finger comb them back into some semblance of order.

John eventually smiled at him, flicking a stray lock out of his eyes. "Does your wing hurt at all?" he asked.

"It's a little sore, but I'll manage. There's mostly pain on Earth," Sherlock mused, almost to himself, as John continued to tuck his curls behind his ears. "I don't know if you've noticed."

The doctor tried to force a smile (Sherlock could absolutely tell a fake, after seeing his real one twice). "I have." He sat back, his hands falling away from Sherlock's head to land on his shoulders, barely brushing the skin of his neck with his fingertips to keep contact. "I definitely have."

Sherlock was more than put off by John's dejected expression. He quickly searched his Earthly memories and millennia of research for something to make John happy again, and then moved forward, gently holding the doctor's head still with his hands, and kissed him on the forehead. "I'm sorry," he murmured quietly but sincerely, kissing John again on the cheek and twice on the corner of his mouth.

John grabbed his wrists and pulled back a little, the faint pulse in his thumb beating rapidly and his pupils dilated. "What are you doing?" he asked in a weak voice.

Sherlock blinked at him. "Comforting you. I saw it on the telly and I read about it… Was it the wrong thing to do?"

"'Was it the wrong thing to do'?" John repeated between laughs, his urgent grip on Sherlock's wrists loosening.

Sherlock's upper lip curled in disdain as he stood up and broke their connection, striding out of the bathroom in a petulant huff. All he was trying to do was help the stupid Human, and he had to go and laugh at him. It wasn't like he wasn't _new_ to all this, and he was definitely _trying_, and he felt the same burning shame he always felt when he got something wrong. It was part of the reason he always strove to be right—to avoid the feeling being wrong brought.

He heard John come after him, shutting off the bathroom light and making his way into the sitting room, his eyes fixed on the place he assumed Sherlock was standing (he was actually about an inch off but Sherlock would be damned if he was going to touch him to tell him that) and the fake smile back on his face. It could be considered an improvement, seeing as John hadn't smiled at all while Sherlock was hiding, but it welled up that sympathetic clench in Sherlock's stomach and he couldn't deal with more than one feeling at once. He could barely deal with _one_ feeling at once.

John sat on the sofa, patting the spot beside him. "Sherlock, I wasn't laughing at you, I promise. I was just… startled." He sighed softly. "Whatever you studied up in Heaven or saw on telly—and I'm pretty sure it had something to do with East Enders—that's what people in _relationships_ do to comfort each other."

The Angel, still in a tiff, picked up John's notebook from where it had been dropped days ago and scribbled a note, tossing it into John's lap. "_We __**are**__ in a relationship._ Not a romantic one, Sherlock. Companionship is a type of relationship, but not one where kisses are usually accepted." He paused, biting his lip and tapping his index finger on the notebook, before running his fingers through his short hair. "I don't… I don't really _know_ you, Sherlock. Even if…" He sighed again, seemingly at a loss for words. "Even if I did want to be in a romantic relationship with you, I would have to get to know you better."

Sherlock snatched the notebook out of John's hand, wrote another note, and threw it back. John caught it as it popped into his plane of existence. "_That sounds tedious. How am I supposed to complete my list when it involves getting to know people?_" The doctor took a deep breath, unsure how much he should really tell Sherlock, but deciding that honesty was the best policy with the supernatural. "You can have loveless sex, Sherlock. It's not impossible. It's just not as… enjoyable."

Sherlock sat next to him then, his fingers ghosting over John's. "You really weren't laughing at me?"

John smiled at him (a real smile, Sherlock noted with a measure of relief). "No, I wasn't."

"If I were to pursue a romantic relationship with you, would you accept?"

John turned his hand over so he could hold Sherlock's, giving it a squeeze. "Did you listen to anything I just said?"

"I know a lot about you," Sherlock insisted, his eyes wide and bright with eagerness. "I know you were discharged with honours because you're able to maintain a job at a surgery, I know you've been shot in your left shoulder by the cautious way you use your arm when it rains and the tremor in your hand, I know—"

"But what do _I_ know about _you_?"

Sherlock paused, his mouth slightly open, and then closed it with a snap. "You know I came from Heaven?"

John raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"That I broke a wing?"

"Sherlock, this is a lot different than factual statements. I need to know about your likes, your dislikes, your hobbies… what did you do every day, spending billions of years up there?"

The Angel frowned a bit, his eyes flickering from John to the floor and back. "I studied. Not anything boring, like politics or government; that was my brother's area. I studied Humans, I studied science. Ah," he hummed, "you should know—time passes differently here. It's much slower…"

John encouraged him with another hand squeeze and a lopsided grin. "See? I've already learned three new things."

Sherlock felt his ears get a little bit hotter and he smiled back. "So I'm allowed to kiss you now?"

"Oh sit on the floor, you daft sod," John huffed in a voice that would have been aggravated but was belied by the grin still wide on his face. "I'm going to change the bandages on your wing." He got up, going off to his room to get his white box, and Sherlock slid off the sofa, wrapping his arms around his legs. He didn't think his wing needed redressing, because there wasn't any blood and the splint was still on tight, but he liked the feel of John's skilled hands on his skin. If it wasn't going to be for sex (yet, Sherlock thought with a smirk) then he was fine being unnecessarily treated.

He heard a muffled curse from John's bedroom, and then the Human was back out in the sitting room, shrugging on his coat. "I'm out of gauze. Sit tight while I stop by the chemist. I don't want you out with your wet hair."

Sherlock didn't answer (John wouldn't have heard him anyway) and waited until John had left to stand up, taking a jacket off the back of John's desk chair and slipping it on. There was no way he was going to squander his good mood and no-longer-painful wing by sitting around. He had a lot of exploring to do.

He went into John's bedroom, opening the window and climbing out, landing a bit harder than he intended but on his feet nonetheless. After a few moments of thinking, he left the alleyway and shoved his hands in his pockets, taking an easy stride down the pavement and successfully ignoring the way his wings felt confined by the fabric of the jacket.

At midday, there were a lot of cars in the road and people on the pavement, but none of them seemed to notice him. He couldn't walk _through_ anyone, he wasn't a disembodied spirit (as many of the duller Humans believed), but it was easy enough to avoid them. It was refreshing, really—he could think and have the motion of walking to ground him in reality.

Sherlock snapped his fingers, conjuring a fresh sheet of parchment and a pen, and wrote with it on his left hand, scrawling across the top: _Things I Know About Doctor John Watson_. After a moment of thinking, he decided that list would be too long. He frowned, biting his cheek, and then scratched that out, leaning against a wall a bit out of the way of foot traffic and rewriting: _Things Dr John Watson Knows About Me_.

1. I—

He was suddenly distracted by flashing blue lights and a two-tone siren, passing by the street corner and attracting the open-mouthed gazes of the idiot masses. He slipped the list into his pocket, following the rushing cop cars at a much more sedate pace (he had to admit that even his curiosity was piqued). Fortunately, their destination was only a few streets down, and Sherlock was able to walk around the lines of yellow tape and go into the large, decrepit building the police had all gathered around.

He waited near the door where the most people were standing, a few flights up from the entrance, all the while glancing over every officer in turn just in case one of them spotted him, and then lifted a second line yellow tape to slip under it, moving closer to the body in the center of the floor. She was wearing a pink jacket (probably in the media, Sherlock deduced) and it looked as if she was a bit wet, even as it hadn't yet rained that day. He didn't know how long she was dead but there was something off about her…

"Oi!" someone called, making him look up. "What are you doing in here? This is a crime scene!"


	4. Old Friends and New Complications

**Thank you for reading : )**

**warning for this chapter: mentions of suicide**

* * *

_"Oi!" someone called, making him look up. "What are you doing in here? This is a crime scene!"_

Sherlock reared back into a defensive position, making direct eye-contact with the slightly shorter man who called out to him. He paused for a beat in surprise. "Lestrade?" He recognised the Human (_Detective Inspector_ Gregory Lestrade, his mind provided immediately) from his older brother's 'minor' position in the High Council—he was one of the lesser Humans trusted with reporting potentially disastrous Human actions up to Heaven.

The silver-haired detective stood a little straighter, and then rushed at Sherlock, taking him by the elbow and marching him out of sight of the rest of the officers. "Sherlock?" he asked, apparently recognising the young Angel as well.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Sherlock hissed. 'Oh God, if they've sent him after me,' he thought with sudden anxiety, 'I don't think I'll be able to escape.' When he was younger, Mycroft would send various people who worked under him to "get him out of trouble," and he was usually able to use his intellect and a little bit of flight to outwit them. His broken wing ached in a painful reminder.

"I could ask the same of you, you great berk!" Lestrade smiled at him, seemingly pleased to see him (a huge relief). "Mycroft told me you weren't allowed down here."

Sherlock snatched his arm out of Lestrade's grip. "I'm not. Well, I wasn't." He checked around for prying eyes, and then leaned forward to whisper, "I was banished. My _fat, idiot brother's_ fault."

Lestrade leaned back a little, studying him. "And they took your wings, eh? Never liked them anyway." The detective (who used to be something of a father-figure to Sherlock) obviously remembered him from when he was much younger (in Earth years, anyway) and his wings were bright white and innocent.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shrugged out of his jacket. "They left them. But…" He spread his left wing as far as he could, the end barely edging the would-be position of the tips of his fingers; the right one was still tucked against the line of his spine and splinted straight.

"I didn't think they would actually hurt you," Lestrade muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets. To someone without wings, Sherlock generally observed that they were seen less as birds and more as butterflies: most Humans thought any one touch could shatter them completely.

"They didn't. When I…" Sherlock swallowed hard. "When I Fell, I landed incorrectly. It broke on impact." He couldn't look into Lestrade's deep brown—and hatefully understanding—eyes anymore, his own gaze falling to the asphalt.

The DI wasn't sure how to respond (Sherlock watched the way he shifted from foot to foot, and tapped his fingertips against his leg). "I didn't think you could reach it from this angle," he said finally.

"No, I can't. There's a Human that I've learned to trust." Sherlock dismissed the topic with a quick shake of his head. "Now, about this 'crime scene'…"

Lestrade thankfully let it go. "It's the fourth in a string of suicides. You… _do_ know what a suicide is, right?"

Sherlock sent him a scathing look, pulling his jacket back on and attempting to more comfortably tuck his good wing under the fabric. "Where are her purse and her suitcase?"

"Suitcase?"

"Mmm. I saw that you have her purse on the forensics table but there's no suitcase. What did you all do with it?"

Lestrade leaned against the wall of the secluded hallway, still studying Sherlock with a critical eye. "There wasn't a suitcase. And how did you get all that from the three seconds you were standing over there?"

Sherlock smiled and tapped his temple. "I observed. Your killer has her case, meaning she was driven here. That's the only way he could have accidentally taken it. She came from Cardiff—"

"Cardiff?"

"Must you repeat everything I say?" Sherlock scowled at him. "_She came from Cardiff,_ because it only started raining in London a few minutes ago, yet she was here for at least two hours. The pattern of low pressure is moving east… and the receipt in her pocket is from a restaurant in Cardiff, approximately three hours ago. Obvious."

Lestrade shook his head a bit, shrugging his shoulders. "You haven't been wrong before," he conceded.

"No, I haven't. Your 'suicide' was a murder, and I suggest you catch whoever did it. Quickly." He looked around at the slowly but surely darkening sky, buttoning his jacket and turning back toward Lestrade. "I have to get back. J—My—_The Human_ will be worried."

"Since when have you cared about anyone else's worries?" Lestrade asked with another odd smile.

"I'll find you," Sherlock said, ignoring the DI's last statement, and walked at a slightly more brisk pace down the hallway and back onto the long staircase. He heard Lestrade begin to say his name, but by then he was around the corner and walking even faster.

He wasn't sure why he cared if a silly little Human knew where he was either. There was something about John Watson that he never read in his textbooks, and that he hadn't gathered from the departed souls floating about the Nine Order's realm instead of the 'Heaven' that Humans frequently referenced and usually resided. He was just… different.

Stepping out into the now heavy rain, Sherlock cursed his lack of foresight in not bringing a _hooded_ jacket, and continued back to John's flat, his mind preoccupied with the rush he got from deducing (obvious, his mind snidely commented) facts. Unlike the sickening feeling of being wrong, being right felt like he was floating.

Sherlock wandered around into the alley behind John's flat ten minutes later, sighing audibly at the closed window. That not only meant John was home, it also meant he would have to face him first thing if he wanted to get inside. Sherlock borderline stomped up the stairs, not caring about the soon-to-be visible puddles he was leaving behind, and knocked rapidly at the door, shouting, "John?"

When there was no answer, he jerked the handle, hearing the lock click open (another handy trick he retained, fortunately), and swung the door open into the sitting room. "John? It's—Oh, stupid, _stupid_." Sherlock ran his hands through his wet curls, mussing them from the near-perfect state that John had arranged them into (without a proper gel they wouldn't have remained perfect anyway, but now wasn't the time for those thoughts. Sometimes he wished he could turn off everything that ran through his head). "He can't hear me…"

He closed the door behind himself, noting the slight changes in the room since he left. There was a paper bag from the chemist's spilled open on the couch, a slight indentation in the carpet that looked as if someone had been pacing there, and the desk drawer was left open. The laptop was placed carefully on the desk top, and it didn't look as if anything else had been shifted—

_but the gun was missing._

Sherlock swallowed down his panic. If John was dead, he would be able to hear him, and so he wasn't dead. He couldn't be dead. Sherlock walked purposefully into his bedroom, his pale eyes narrowed in irritation and fear.

"John," he breathed, looking carefully over the doctor's stiff form. He was sitting in his bed, both trembling hands wrapped around the barrel of his gun, which was pointed at the floor, and neither forefinger was on the trigger. "John, I'm back," Sherlock said as calmly as he could, brushing his fingers over the back of John's wrist.

"Are you really?" John asked softly. His fingers clicked the safety of the Browning on and off.

Sherlock blinked at him, sitting next to him and holding his wrist in both hands. "Yes, I am. Can't you see me?"

John's lips pressed together until they were as pale as his ashen face. "What are you _really_ here to do?"

"I don't… I don't understand."

"You seem to show up when I'm closest to—when I'm going to kill myself." John's voice caught on the last few words. "Are you supposed to take me away, and you just… you don't think I'm ready? What is it?"

"John, I am what I am. I've been banished from my home and… you're my friend, John. You've helped me when you could have… I don't know… chopped my wings off and left me for dead. I'm in _your_ debt." He paused, then went quiet.

The doctor placed the gun on the bed, leaning a bit into Sherlock's warm (and damp, but he didn't seem to mind) side. "So you're not leaving? I mean, you didn't leave?"

Sherlock's ears went a bit red, but they were thankfully hidden by his riotous curls. "I know you, err, told me to stay. I thought I would be back before you." He slid his hands up John's wrist to instead grip his hand. "I'm not going to leave any time soon. I like you."

"What did you do?" John asked, attempting to control his shaking with a tighter hold on Sherlock's hands.

"I walked a bit. Met an old… acquaintance."

"Another angel?"

Sherlock exhaled heavily, his lips curling up in the phantom of a smile, and murmured, "Not as such, no. A Human. Who works for my brother."

John glanced up at him, looking a bit less haunted. "You keep mentioning this brother of yours. What's he like?"

"He's a fat sod who only cares for himself."

"Harsh."

They glanced at each other and burst into laughter, leaning more heavily against each other's shoulders. It took them some time to calm; Sherlock watched John's eyes light and face brighten out of the corner of his eye, taken with the sudden desire to kiss him senseless but unwilling to go for it. John caught him looking after a few moments, pulling one hand out of Sherlock's grip to wrap it around his thin waist and pull him closer. "Is he really that bad?"

Sherlock leaned his head on top of John's and sighed. "He's worse than that. I was being nice." The doctor chucked a bit, his gaze flickering down to the gun still by his side. "Don't do that again," Sherlock said seriously, his mirth-filled voice going flat and cold in an instant. "I'd rather you discuss your _feelings_," he shuddered a bit, "with me rather than contemplate… Please don't make that mistake."

John took a deep breath. "We have to clean your wing, remember? I need to go to the sitting room and get the gauze."

Sherlock nodded and let his hand go, leaning away from him so he could stand. "I promise to stay this time," he murmured aloud.

"Thank you," John replied, then paused at the door. "Did I just…?"

"I told you. Increased contact." Sherlock shed the wet jacket, throwing it across the room, where it popped back into existence with a wet _splat_ against the wall. "Can you see me?"

"Not anymore than I could yesterday, no." John opened his mouth as if to say something, but he closed it soon after, leaving the room. Sherlock stared after him, picking up the gun and placing it on the dresser. "I don't think we should change the bandages until after you've showered. They'll get wet again and we'll have to do them over," he said when he came back.

Sherlock looked down at his near-soaked clothes. "I don't have anything to change into."

"I'll wash your clothes while you're in the shower."

"I doubt I'll take that long."

John grinned in his direction. "Get in the shower, idiot."

Sherlock complied, more because he was happy he'd gotten John to smile yet again than actual want to get clean, brushing past John to go into the bathroom. He pulled his clothes off in the hall and left them in a sopping pile after himself.

He stood under the hot water until it went cold and then turned it off, wrapping John's towel around himself and venturing back out into the sitting room. The doctor was still downstairs, probably waiting on the dryer, leaving Sherlock to wander about and poke into things much the same way he did his first day in John's flat.

He jumped a bit when the front door opened and John came back inside, shutting a few kitchen cabinets. "Sherlock, you pretty much live here now. You don't have to rush around to hide things."

The Angel blushed sheepishly, his left wing arching up against his bare back, and went forward to retrieve his clothes. "Thank you," he said sincerely, his fingers pressed lightly into John's wrist.

Sherlock watched with some amusement as John studied his bare torso and the towel around his waist a bit longer than necessary. "Ah, yeah." The Human took a step back, but it was matched by one forward from Sherlock.

"It's okay," he said softly, the corners of his mouth turning up in a wicked smirk. "You can look."

John stammered something in reply and pulled away. "I'm going to… I mean, I've got to…" He sent one last look toward Sherlock, then fled to the sitting room and turned on the telly, leaving Sherlock alone in the kitchen to laugh. Humans were all so _modest_, like they had no idea what their own bodies looked like.

Stifling the rest of his laughter, Sherlock redressed and followed John to the sofa.

* * *

"How is he?"

Lestrade shrugged, adjusting his scarf. "The same as always."

Mycroft blinked at him and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "I wasn't aware he would be injured. I was _less_ aware that he would be helped."

The DI didn't question how Mycroft, holed up in his office all day and night, would have that information; there were Human and Angel spies all over the world. Lestrade wouldn't be surprised if London's CCTV was under Mycroft's control as well. "He says he's got another Human to patch him up. Says he trusts him."

They sat silently in the warm amber light from Mycroft's office fireplace for a moment, before the Archangel sighed and folded his hands together. "My brother isn't one to trust so easily. I might have to talk with this Human though…" He pulled a small leather bound book out of the pocket of his jacket, flipping through it to the most recent page. "Doctor John Watson." He snapped it closed. "Interesting."


	5. Intermission I

**This one is very short : )**

* * *

Sherlock was jolted awake from his light sleep in John's bed by a cry from the sitting room. He could only sit in confusion for a few moments, trying to gather his sleep-addled wits about him, and then he stood up (on shaky legs) and walked out to the sofa.

"John?" he called softly, maneuvering through the darkness to the whimpering Human. "John, I think it's a nightmare." (Never having experienced a nightmare, Sherlock's brain could previously only assume they were terrible, but hearing John's distressed noises solidified his assumption.)

John didn't wake at Sherlock's loud staggering down the hall, still tossing and turning under the thin blanket he took out of his room every night, his breathing laboured like he was running a marathon. Sherlock stood by his side for a few moments, caught between shaking him awake and letting him sleep through. "John," he tried again, kneeling near the doctor's head.

John's eyes shot open and Sherlock fell back in surprise. "G-God..." John stammered weakly, wiping at his wet eyes and turning on his side.

Sherlock slowly and gently touched his hand. "John, are you alright?" He was completely out of his element (comforting was his weakest point) but John had comforted him many times in the past three days and he felt he owed him.

"Yeah, I'm fine," John replied through tears. Even to the emotionally stunted Angel, he sounded completely _not_ fine, still covering his eyes with his hands and unable to stifle his soft sobs.

Sherlock frowned, running his fingers through his hair as he thought. "Budge up," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"_Budge. Up._" Sherlock waited until John moved a bit closer to the back of the sofa to lie in front of him, pulling the blanket up to their shoulders (it was a tight fit for a couch that could barely fit one person, but he found he liked being that close to his—_the_ Human). "Why are you blushing?" he murmured uncertainly. "I'm comforting you, aren't I? Unless you want to be kissed again," he teased.

John smiled a bit at him, taking Sherlock's hands between them and narrowing his eyes to stare at him through the darkness. "No, no kissing, thanks," he said, some of the embarrassed red fading from his cheeks. "I'd rather just… thank you."

"Mmm." Sherlock leaned his forehead against John's for a moment, and then buried his face in the warm hollow between John's neck and shoulder, closing his eyes. "Would you, perhaps, like to talk to me about it?"

The doctor sighed into Sherlock's curls and wrapped his arms around his thin shoulders, stroking the downy feathers that lined the juncture of Sherlock's wings and his back. "It was nothing. I always get them."

"Didn't seem like nothing."

"Afghanistan." John sighed again. "It was about the war."

Sherlock peeked up at him, looking for all intents and purposes like a curious child, and slid his thin leg between John's, moving even closer to him. "Are you okay now?"

"As okay as I'll ever be."

Sherlock smiled and nestled closer. "I wouldn't say that."

Deep blue eyes flickered to his. "I'm sorry I woke you. You're still healing."

"I was worried about you. I wasn't going to leave you lying here for the rest of the night." Sherlock cleared his throat, hiding his face again. "And I may have wanted to collect a little data on Human behaviour."

John smiled a bit, lifting a hand to wipe at the rest of his tears. "At any rate, you should get back to sleep." He let his arms fall away from Sherlock, staring expectantly down at his dark curls, but the Angel didn't move from his warm spot.

"I'm not leaving, so you may as well stop looking at me and just sleep. While you have your memory crisis, I will continue to console you, and when you do… whatever it is that Humans do when they're not having a crisis, I will let you alone."

"Mad git," John replied fondly, ruffling Sherlock's hair and once again holding him close. "I'm probably going to have another crisis tomorrow morning over my apparent thirty-odd-years-suppressed homosexuality, so be ready for that."

There was a long pause, and then Sherlock breathed, "_What?_"

John laughed softly into the top of his head. "I'll tell you about it in the morning."

Sherlock frowned against John's neck. Humans were very odd sometimes.

* * *

**Thank you for reading : )**


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